


Vitruvian Man / Corners of the Mind

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Bondage, Dirty Talk, Dom Rodney McKay, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Humiliation, M/M, Seduction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 03:51:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's worse like this, willfully exposing the part of himself doesn't understand no matter how much he needs it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Vitruvian Man

Rodney makes him ask for it and John doesn't know if that makes it better or worse. _Hotter_ , yes, infinitely so as he searches for words that vanish before he can shape them, too locked up to shiver because his dick is _throbbing_ , only a zipper between him and a truly obscene display, his body betraying him—except it's not a betrayal, not at all as Rodney looks at him, suddenly miles and miles taller, shadows creating furrows along his nose, caverns around his mouth and John feels so small.

It's worse like this, willfully exposing the part of himself doesn't understand no matter how much he needs it. But it's better too, because Rodney never understands subtleties and sometimes John doesn't, either.

His bonds are sheets looped around his wrists, pulling him open and taut across a bed just barely big enough for him to enact his own Vitruvian Man, every part of him delineated and exposed to Rodney's eyes.

He could break free if he wanted to. Flexing his wrists in cotton loops, he _knows_ he could break free.

Rodney knows it, too.

"I don't need to do anything, do I?" Rodney asks. He's standing over the bed, painted in shadows, darkness that seems black with only the moon to illuminate them, like something that's risen up from John's dreams. Nightmares—it doesn't matter. "I did everything I need to do. I could leave, right now, and you'd still be here sweating all over my 800 thread sheets, dripping all over your belly and hips."

John arches, rubbing his shoulders against the 800-count sheets underneath him until his skin burns. He is dripping, or at least is close to it, and if Rodney doesn't do something, doesn't touch him, please _touch him_ , then John knows he'll do exactly what Rodney has said. He'll wait and he'll want until his cock is slick with it, mixing with the salt that dries on his skin.

"I could walk out that door." Rodney's voice is taunting, flush with the superior pleasure that John hears every day. "I could leave it open, too, and let them all see. Who would be the first to come in, hm? Would they touch you? You want them too, I know that. You always do. It's why you never let anyone close, because you know—you _know_ —that once someone starts you'll never want them to stop. You're like a dog, so anxious to be petted that you'll whine and wag your tail, thumping it against the floor the moment you're told to sit."

John shudders, hard enough that his restraints bite into the skin of his wrists, his ankles. This isn't what he asked for, isn't at all, but his heart is beating so hard the backs of his eyes pulse with it, and his dick is so hard it _hurts_ and he doesn't want Rodney to stop. Wants Rodney to touch him, to god, yes, sit as his feet and wag a non-existent tail if it means he gets those hands, big and thick and sure, on him.

Standing beside John's stretched out arm, Rodney looks him over, bending low for closer scrutiny. "You'd beg, John. The man who never speaks except when spoken to, who always has a quip—you'd _beg_. You'd whimper and whine and plead."

He would. He _will_ , he wants to, can feel those damnable words that spin away from him every other time, now thick and heavy on his tongue. His mouth waters around them, around Rodney's order to stay still and quiet and this is as close as John ever wants to come to hell or heaven, both.

But Rodney's not done yet.

"You'd put yourself on display, arch your back like a whore from the docks, because you need it so much. You're an addict, skin and come and that first push that always hurts, every time, whether it's your throat or your ass. You _crave_ it, written into your DNA. You wouldn't care who walked through that door, so long as someone did. So long as you had a cock up your ass, something warm and wet over your mouth, you wouldn't care. You'd crawl for it, if it meant that someone touched you, someone finally gave you what you want, showed the whole world that no matter how aloof you are, no matter how distant, you're not a loner. You're a _whore_ , a slut who wants payment in come, drying on your skin until it's all you can smell, all you can taste and only then— _only_ —will it be me, John. I'll take you when you're covered with it, disgusting and open from everyone you've had, make you be tight and ready for me while you arch and beg and scream as I fuck you and fuck you and fuck you."

The intensity of the words rises with every new breath and by the time Rodney calls him a whore, John is moaning inside his head, lost in the world Rodney creates: he can feel it, all of them, hands and legs brushing stains on his skin, eased with a flood of hot come, covering him until he does smell it, until he _tastes_ it, and he's panting loudly enough that he can hear it over the roar in his head, over the sound of Rodney calling him names, calling him what he is, taking him the way his body does most nights, hard and fast and brutally truthful.

"And then we'll do it all over again," Rodney ends, words like a silken cloth draping over his whole body as John comes and comes and comes.

His vision grays and maybe goes dark, he doesn't know. Just that when he blinks back into awareness he's untied, curled up like a ball, pressed against body that is warm and comforting, breathing rhythmically against his belly, arms tight bands—tighter than the restraints—around his back.

He takes stock, slowly, cataloging the dull ache of being stretched out—easing now that he's released—the flutter of stomach muscles abused from coming as hard as he did and.

No sweat, though. His body is clean and dry and actually pretty tired, except for something that itches on his stomach, and the feel of Rodney all around him.

"I came on you," Rodney murmurs into his ear. "Didn't clean it up. I figured you'd like the reminder."

John exhales slowly, wrung out but content because he wants Rodney to be okay with this. To be okay with _him_ and this part of himself that— 

"Stop thinking so much, or I won't do this again." Rodney noses his head just far enough away that they can kiss, slow and chaste and as sweetly as Rodney—whose kisses are like sex, like being taken over and over—knows how. "Go to sleep, okay?"

John hears the tremor and responds to it, cuddling closer because he wants _this_ , this moment that ties it all together, neat and carefully trimmed around the edges. 

And he has it.


	2. Corners of the Mind

Rodney is aware that having significant others is a lot of work. It's one of the reasons he typically doesn't have one, and when he does, they're much closer to what Lorne fondly terms a 'fuck-buddy'. Someone he has sex with and brings to events, if necessary; everything else is more work than either of them -- whoever he's currently with -- can manage and the relationships never last all that long to begin with.

He has had a few actual girlfriends that were more than quick relief after an experiment gone insane so Rodney genuinely knows that being someone's Other is exhausting.

It's just that no other relationship has exhausted him in quite this way.

Rodney is not vanilla. He has left vanilla by the wayside, languishing unlamented and entirely unwanted as Rodney discovers that while vanilla sex can be good, sex with accouterments is better. It's not that he requires the toys, or odd positions or outlandish kinks. It's just that they're fun, they're usually no more effort than accounting for bodily needs and spatial dynamics and it's _easy_.

Except with John. Rodney has many phrases that end 'except with John', but of all of them, this is what he finds most bizarre. John does not require telepathic understanding of hurts, he does not require exhaustive conversations about love, fidelity, and commitment. He does not care if Rodney forgets an anniversary, unless Rodney also happens to forget the beer or the dvds, things that Rodney is usually none too happy about, as well.

What John does require, however, is something Rodney has never had trouble fulfilling before: sexual gratification. Regular sex is fine, of course. Never let it be said that John is complaining about long make-out sessions where Rodney has kissed for so long that his mouth feels raw in the best of ways, body aching the way only comes from good, satisfying sex.

Except. Except except _except_.

John likes those relatively simplistic encounters and would probably be satisfied with them for however long their relationship lasts, which Rodney doesn't think of in those terms because it makes his chest feel tight and painful, like an advancing heart attack.

John would never complain about not getting more -- but he still _wants_ that 'more'.

Rodney is aware that many things other people consider obvious are things he does not, immediately, see. He's learned to deal with that in varying ways, but the one truth that others so often forget -- the morons -- is that this only holds constant for things he doesn't _actually care about._ If he cares, then he learns. If he has difficulty learning on his own, his preferred method, he finds a teacher. He is relentless in the pursuit of knowledge and if that knowledge happens to be why John's eyes occasionally go glazed and distant at the oddest times, and why several porn clips on his laptop are so far away from vanilla that they are in another galaxy all together -- well. It's something new for him to learn and excel at.

And he _does_.

He's a scientist and no matter how much he fumbles, there's a logic and a schema and eventually he finds what he's looking for. In this case, it's John's deepest, darkest sexual needs, the kind of sex he doubts the man has ever truly had, but makes him go weak-kneed and trembling with want, completely laid low by something that he knows, intellectually, is wrong and dangerous and yet still craves it.

Rodney won't lie. Well, he can't lie, not successfully, but if John ever asks him, he _won't_ lie: it scares him. Not disturbs him, because so long as actual horses or other props aren't involved, Rodney is fairly certain he can handle just about anything. But it does scare him, terrifies him, in fact, on a level he can't properly articulate which gives him the heart attack feeling _and_ the paralyzing frustration of a stroke victim because not being able to articulate something is his third highest fear.

John could get lost in his fantasies. He could lose the innate _Johnness_ that Rodney's heart-attack feelings tell him are necessary for Rodney's own continued happiness. Sometimes, privately, Rodney thinks that he'd almost prefer the horses or scary, scary props because those would be outside things, items that would keep John outside of the byzantine labyrinth that is his mind, emotions so locked away and frozen that the moment they're let out, they're overwhelming, a tidal wave of feeling John literally cannot handle.

John wants to be used. Primal, sexual, and complete. He wants to be forced into enjoying what he cannot allow himself to enjoy _without_ force. He wants to become a caricature, a sexual object, that is both wanted and dismissed at the same time, echoing the curious pattern of his whole life, the loner who always joins the group anyway, who will actively stay a part of a group that rejects him _because_ of his loner behavior.

If Rodney actually thought psychology was a useful subject, he's sure John would make an excellent paper. He also doesn't care, because it isn't useful.

What's useful is knowing these things, what John wants and what John needs, where the two lines depart and converge, overlapping, and being certain of it.

Rodney is certain. He's certain of it the way he's certain of the constants of science, which are always constant except when they're not.

Because that's the conundrum, the instability in the fulcrum of Rodney's knowledge. John wants it, and has probably sought out something close to it, without ever truly _finding_ it. It's probably due to some oddity of his martyr complex, nonsense that prevents John from sacrificing himself only for himself, without his actions meaning something.

John doesn't do a lot for himself. He likes doing things for others, providing 'doing things' falls into categories like shooting and attempting suicide to prevent genocide.

Yes, Rodney knows he has issues. He's working on them.

The upshot is, after finally discovering what, exactly, John wants and what he needs, Rodney is left to determine what _he_ can give John, if he should offer anything at all, if John will accept his offer -- not an unlikely proposition -- and if John does, what exactly Rodney needs to _do._

The first three things are dealt with easily enough. He has many things to offer John, because as terrified as Rodney is that John will close himself off underneath all that hair, never to return again, he's aware that the opposite is just as likely: if John never finds his way there, he'll always be missing a part of himself, always incomplete and searching, inconsolable because he isn't aware of where the problem lies, only that one -- sort of, maybe -- exists.

It's up to Rodney to provide some assistance which is a very Significant Other type job, and he's actually a little proud of himself.

So, yes, he can offer something, he should offer something. John's acceptance is the only thing he can't determine for himself, which leads him square into the last problem: what exactly he should do, should John actually say yes.

It's such a problem that he spends weeks working on it. Everyone notices. They assume that he's working some problem about ZPM's or weapons -- guns are Ronon's verbal favorite although the expression he gives Rodney when he says that means he is _lying, lying, his pants are burning_. Rodney doesn't call him on it because he really doesn't want to know what Ronon thinks underneath his own head of impressively ridiculous hair. It will probably end up being painful and truthful and that just never needs to be verbalized.

Rodney allows them to keep their assumptions, all of 'them', mostly because it distracts John from thinking it has anything to do with himself. That, Rodney is quite pleased with. The rest of it?

Not so much.

Coming up with depraved, perverted acts that will not send John on some psychotic emotional spiral, will please _both_ of them, and are not an affront to even Rodney's broad sensibilities is exhausting. It's _impossible_ , exactly like trying to telepathically determine why Lorraine is annoyed with him this time, or frantically trying to come up with an event that will wow a pouting, unhappy boyfriend who apparently _did_ remember dates Rodney doesn't care about.

Rodney remembers every single important date of his and John's relationship. He remembers when he finally realized what his body was saying. He remembers when his heart added agreement. He remembers their first terribly awkward conversation, a truly terrible kiss, and the sex that was so bad they nearly called it quits right there.

He remembers John coming to his room two nights later, determined and uncomfortable and so sad Rodney could even term it 'heart broken', asking if they could try again.

He remembers these events, plus a few others, down to the nanosecond and doubts he'll ever forget.

John's still not getting an anniversary present out of him, though.

What John will get, however, is several months of a distracted Chief of Science, teammate, friend, and person-he-shares-orgasms-with, because Rodney is the most stubborn creature in two galaxies and he will find a way to do this.

He eventually decides on 'ad-libbing'. Oh, that's not all of it. Careful testing has proven John's willingness for bonds and Rodney is confident he can do that without raising alarm or, more worrisome, softening dicks. John has a very expressive dick when he doesn't like something and Rodney takes notes. The restrains aren't an issue. The talking, in and of itself, isn't an issue.

It's what he has to _say_. Rodney is comfortable with insults, but that's normally because he's addressing people who really are as stupid as he claims they are. John isn't stupid. He also isn't something Rodney's prepared to share. Just thinking about it creates a tightness that doesn't make Rodney think of heart attacks, but is still painful and usually flushes his face tomato red in the process, fists balled up like he's Teyla, Possessor of the Doom-Sticks.

Rodney doesn't share well in a general sense. When it comes to John, there is no such thing as 'general'.

He does his research. He watches a bevy of clips and memorizes lines, carefully judging which affect John the most. He compiles strings of phrases and sentences that he commits to his big, impressive brain that has never been good at poetry or other declarations of love, and hopes he can be at least good enough, because if he's bad at this, if he gets it wrong, he loses.

He loses _John._

When he tightens the final knot, though, watching John nearly hyperventilate, cock hard and red and wet as it curves up towards his belly, rubbing against his glory trail with each pant, Rodney forgets everything he wanted to say. All of it is just gone, because John is oddly beautiful like this. He's open, stretched and spread in ways that has nothing to do with the taut lines of his muscle, and when Rodney opens his mouth, the words are just _there_.

He talks about leaving John, as if that's possible. He calls John names that have never been John's to bear except in how much he _wants_ them, throwing them like Ronon's knives because Rodney realizes, as he feels each of John's shudder against his own skin without a single shared touch, as his cock gets harder and harder, that he isn't creating new wounds, he's cauterizing old ones. They'll always be there, Rodney knows -- _knows_ \-- each one rebroken by time and stress and plain old ego-free _want_ , but Rodney can see as each word scores a hit, each piece of John's psyche turns a little less gaping and ragged and raw, closing in on itself even as John whines continuously, squirming with unselfconscious need, because there was no consciousness here. There was just pure, pure need, pure want, lit like a flame before Rodney's very eyes, burning up Colonel and Friend and Teammate and Boss and everything other Person John as ever been until there's just -- John.

Writhing and moaning and wet with sweat and precome because Rodney is giving him everything, in the way he's always wanted.

"And then we'll do it all over again," Rodney growls, because he will. He'll want to because John wants to, because John wants this _from Rodney_ , the only one who will never actually open the door, no matter how sincere his voice is, and shove him onto whatever cocks or pussies await, who will never treat him like a possession or a toy unless it's within certain boundaries, who will do this because it's something they can share, something they can both enjoy, not a chore or a necessity.

It isn't. It's _hot_ stunningly, incandescently hot and Rodney doesn't start to shake until John has stopped jerking, body finally relaxing, and Rodney's is on fire, burning burning _burning_ with the need to open his pants, the damned pants he didn't unbutton, his palm sweaty, hand unsteady around his cock as he pulls, frantic with the need to show John how much this affects him, too, how amazing John looks, completely relaxed the way he hardly ever is, even in sleep, the tiniest of smiles tilting the corner of his mouth.

Rodney comes so hard that it's minutes before he realizes he is standing still, holding his dick in between the flaps of his pants, and probably looks like a fool.

John never knows.

All he knows is that when he finally swims back to the surface, Rodney is willingly curled around him, this thing that wants what is so very unacceptable, annoyed and only a little nervous -- please god, let him only seem a little nervous -- as he waits to see which John will lurk behind eyes still blown wide in amazement.

There are a lot of choices and all but one are the wrong answer.

He almost laughs when he figures out John's concern is not for himself, not even the tiniest bit, but that _Rodney might not have come._ Because if he's going to martyr himself to yet another cause, Rodney better get full satisfaction out of it.

Yeah. That's the right John.

Annoyed and grateful -- so grateful, there could be shrines or little sachets in his future, he's not above bribery for relief this profound -- Rodney orders John to sleep because it's okay. He can do this, he can do other things and trust John to come back to him when it's over. He can trust John that both of them will enjoy it.

No matter what the focus seems to be -- who or how or dear god, why -- the actual point is very simple: John and Rodney. Just them. It's for them, all of it is, because Rodney knows now, he gets it, that John won't do this if Rodney doesn't want to. And Rodney is a little horrified that he _does_ want to, but god, he really does just to see John go that far again, to see him eagerly swim back to grin, cheeky and smug and exhaustedly sated, before they kiss and touch and reassure themselves that it's okay, go to sleep, everything will be fine in the morning.

Granted, a morning in the Pegasus Galaxy, but Rodney has learned exactly what that means. If it gets him John in his life, his bed, and his heart -- well. That's worth it, then, isn't it?

Even if he has to spend another few months to come up with something to top this. Or, hm. Maybe John will have suggestions? Pulling them out might be fun, a kind of game at the very beginning when making John say it was hotter than the _it_ being said, because John hated it and loved it and needed to hear the words and -- 

"Mm," John says, sleepy and emphatic.

"Mmhmm," Rodney replies and turns the problem over to his subconscious, to be looked at later -- much later -- after he's gone to sleep with John's breath on his neck and John's heart beating steadily against Rodney's, which is not, incidentally, failing.

It is far, far too steady.


End file.
